


Day 11: Quilts

by xsilverdreamsx



Series: 30 Day Winter Challenge [11]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom!Eames, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx/pseuds/xsilverdreamsx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 11: Quilts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 11: Quilts

**Author's Note:**

> [30 day winter fic challenge](http://heckyeahtumblrchallenges.tumblr.com/post/35486362064/winter-drawing-writing-challenge).  
>  **Disclaimer** : Not beta’ed, sorry. /o\ All mistakes made here are mine. I don't own the characters, am playing in the sandbox, etc etc.

In all the months that Eames had been working side by side with Arthur, he thought that he had his personality and traits long figured out. Arthur, dear, serious, stick-in-the-mud Arthur, was the kind of person who woke up everyday at precisely 6 a.m. brushed his teeth in exactly the same number of strokes, drank his coffee black, no sugar, blistering hot while he took his time to blow and sip it while tapping away at his smartphone.

Arthur was a stylish person; he wore his vests buttoned up beneath his jacket, dark and somber his undershirts plain or pinstriped, his pants neatly pressed and practically hugging his thighs and rather round, delightful arse. The first time Eames had turned up on the job wearing a terribly loud paisley shirt (in his defense, he had left most of his luggage and better clothes back in the last place he had been in a hurry to escape from being killed), Arthur had eyed Eames’s shirt in distaste, with the air of an offended couturist.

Eames had taken to turning up with the ugliest shirts he could dig up at the local stores, just so he could see the expression on Arthur’s face before he stomped off, looking insulted.

This had carried on until their architect, a young woman with a piercing through her lower lip, had tugged Eames aside and begged him to stop gouging their eyes out with his horrible clothes.

Eames might have continued on with his charade if he hadn’t returned to his hotel room one day to discover that it had been broken into, and the thief had made off with nothing but his clothes, and a tin of his grandmother’s biscuits.

(He could forgive the stolen clothes, but not the biscuits. They were hand-rolled and filled with apricot jam, his favorite, he could only hope that the thief somehow choked on the biscuits while gorging on them.)

So Eames had gone on to believing that Arthur was perfect - if sometimes a little too uptight - and terribly good at fashion and style, amongst other things.

Until he had, after a night of drunken celebration and quite possibly more drunken challenges, ended up making out with Arthur in the back alley of the pub before being dragged to Arthur’s apartment and pinned down while Arthur fucked into him hard and fast before he came and passed out cold.

When Eames finally woke up to the sound of a shower running in the bathroom somewhere, the sun was shining painfully into his eyes, and he had the worst hangover in the history of mankind and his mouth tasted like a dead camel’s breath.

He did, however, feel rather warm and comfortable, even though he could smell the stink of alcohol and smoke and sweat (one sniff under his armpit confirmed that). He glanced down to find a quilted blanket covering his body.

It wasn’t the quilt that caught his attention, however. It was a common pattern - Eames remembered his grandmother handing out some form of quilted gift to each of her grandchildren every year, and her patterns had been terribly complicated - and the stitching looked somewhat botched in some parts.

But it was the fabric, or rather, the different pieces of fabrics that had been used for each part of the pattern, that had caught his eye. There was the pattern from the salmon-pink paisley shirt that Eames had worn the first time they had met, and then the blue shirt with the coral patterns and grey and purple collared piece (even Eames had cringed a little when he had pulled it on) that he had picked up for a few euros.

He could hear the shower being turned down, and several seconds later, the door to the bathroom slid open as a very naked and still dripping-wet Arthur stepped out, drying his body with a thick, fluffy looking towel.

“Oh, you’re awake,” Arthur said, and he smiled at Eames, the kind of smile that made his heart thump against his chest loudly.

Arthur knelt on the bed, leaning over to kiss Eames, when Eames pulled back. Arthur gave him a confused look.

“Arthur, could you explain why your quilt here closely resembles various parts of my stolen shirts?” Eames pointed at the quilt, and Arthur’s face paled. Behind him, Eames could see a familiar looking tin that he suspected contained his grandmother’s biscuits.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Arthur said, the guilt evident in his voice and on his face. Eames deftly pulled him into bed, still dripping wet and all, and effectively pinned his wrists down onto the bed to keep him from running off.

“Get off me, Eames,” Arthur demanded, trying to kick him off, but Eames kissed him, using his weight to press down onto his body as Arthur slowly stopped struggling and kissed him back.

When they broke apart for air, Eames grinned down at Arthur. “If you really wanted my shirts, darling, you only need to ask,” he said impishly. “However, I believe that stealing is a crime, for which I am willing to _punish_ you severely for it.” He rolled his hips against Arthur’s groin, feeling how hard Arthur was.

“You are a terrible person,” Arthur said, but then he smiled, dimples appearing in his cheeks, and Eames couldn’t help but lean down and kiss him again this time more sweetly and slowly and with less heat than before.

Weeks later, Eames opened up a package that had been been sent to his home in London, to discover an empty tin of biscuits and a brand new ugly salmon-pink paisley shirt.


End file.
